Whatever Happens
by Impalallama
Summary: Whatever happens, it'll be okay. Or not... *A series of one-shots based on prompts and words. AU, Spoilers, and Character Death. You have been warned.*
1. Not Early Enough

**Paradise**

Sam curses himself for taking so long in locating the Djinn's lair. He berates himself for being so stupid as to miss a turn along the main street and pass by the warehouse all together. What had he been thinking? A mistake like that shouldn't have been made by a hunter with his skill; he's been doing this too long to pull off something as moronic as taking a wrong turn. Mistakes meant losing time, and losing time usually meant the loss of an innocent, and with his brothers life on the line, Sam should have been able to focus wholeheartedly on the task at hand. _Idiot! You stupid, stupid, son of a bitch! _His hands are tight on the steering wheel as he pulls up to the warehouse and even tighter on the grip of the silver knife as he heads silently, but quickly, into the building.

The youngest Winchester is just in time to kill the Djinn before it has a chance to drain the young girl completely, stabbing the creature without hesitation before letting the girl down carefully on the ground. He takes less than a minute to check on her, deems her okay for the time being, before launching himself to the other side of the room where his brother is hanging limply, suspended by his wrists from the ceiling.

_Nononono. _Sam's heart races as dread swells in his chest and it's suddenly too difficult to breathe. Fear, cold and strong, grip him when he sees the paleness of Dean's skin and how sunken his cheeks have become. His brother's eyes are slitted, and there's no trace of the normally vivid green peeking through the lashes. Sam has to choke back on a sob when he realizes that he's made it just minutes too late: his brother's gone.

And it's all Sam's fault.

Raw guilt replaces the dread now, thoroughly consumes him until his eyes are burning with hot tears. Sam unties his brother, catches his weight (_dead_) when he comes loose, carries him slowly to the ground, and holds him to his chest, wanting nothing more than for his brother to wake up and call him _Sammy_ and tell him that he's okay.

But Dean doesn't wake up and that cold fact settles like a rock in the pit of his stomach and only causes him to cry harder.

He doesn't how long he sits there, rocking his big brother gently as he heaves great sobs into the silence. He doesn't know how the paramedics got there either (later he'll realize that he had called them just before entering the building) but he doesn't move when one of them tries to pry him away from Dean's corpse; he ignores them, continuing to rock gently, whispering "I'm sorry," over and over again as if uttering the insignificant apology will somehow bring Dean back.

Eventually the paramedics are able to get Dean away from him; Sam wails, fights with all he has, and they have to restrain him because all he wants is to _not let go_.

He's still too busy weeping and desperately fighting the paramedics, practically clawing at them, to notice the small, relieved smile plastered on his brother's blue-tinged lips.


	2. Two Sizes Too Big

The apocalypse is over and Dean is safe and happy in his room. He's sitting on his bed, smiling the most genuine smile he's ever put on his face in a long time, and wearing a jacket that's at least two sizes too big. But that's okay because, well, who knows? Perhaps he's shrunk a bit, or maybe Castiel's healing had a weird side-effect, or maybe he's just always been this size and finally noticed. But it's okay. Everything's over now, he's done -with angels, demons, the end of the world; all of it. He'll just sit here forever talking to his brother, listening to his music, doing what he wants to do for the first time in his life.

There's a sudden knock at the door but he doesn't look up or even acknowledge the creak of hinges as it opens just a crack. He merely sits, calloused fingers playing with the amulet around his neck, and continues to talk to his brother.

Outside, the doctors watch with mournful eyes and broken hearts as their newest patient calls the adjacent wall _Sammy_.


	3. Taking Care

**Rust**

After Dean's death, and after Sam has finally stopped crying, the first thing he does is tune up the Impala.

He's not very good at it; Sam knows that he'll never be as skillful as his brother when it comes to taking care of the Impala, but that does not mean that he's not going to try. Sam's stubborn, and he can remember a vast amount of times during their childhood where besting his big brother was all he could think about. If Dean could pick a lock in under three minutes, then Sam could do it in two, and if Dean could hit the target dead center, then Sam could do it as well.

Sibling rivalry. It was always about who was better than who. Sam scoffs at his thoughts. _It's also gotten us into trouble more times than I can count._

But the car was, _is, _Dean's and Sam knows that he'll never be able to best his brother at this, at something that he'd been doing practically his whole life. There are four things that Dean knows better than Sam, and Sam will wholeheartedly admit it to anyone who asks. Women. Hunting. Taking care of the car. And taking care of his little brother.

Sam smiles, but tears well up in his eyes and he wipes them away with the sleeve of his hoodie. Damn... he's been gone for a week and Sam still can't even _look_ at the car without thinking of Dean. The taller man gives a choked laugh as he leans over the hood of the Impala, watches as the small tears hit the metal with soft _plunks. _

Sam doesn't stay like that for long, he's got a job to do after all and with a heavy, ragged sigh, he straightens up and sets to work; utilizing all the important lessons Dean's taught him over their last year.

_ That's my job, right? Showing my little brother the ropes?_

The work is hard, mostly because Sam's hands are shaking so bad he has trouble getting a good grip on the tools; he stifles a curse as the wrench once again slips out of his fingers and clatters to the ground. More than anything, though, he's afraid of messing up, scared he'll screw up the car so bad it won't even _start_; because Lord _knows_ he has barely any idea as to what he's doing.

But he tries.

He takes care of the Impala, takes care of _her – _because Dean would have kicked his ass for referring to the car as an _it_ – just like his big brother had shown him how to do. He's diligent, focused, doesn't stop till her surface is gleaming and he can see himself - red-rimmed eyes and all – staring back at him through the paint.

And everyday for two weeks it's the same routine: wake up, eat, shower if he has to, get dressed, drive to the next piece-of-crap motel, and then take an hour to clean the Impala before heading out to hunt down whatever evil son-of-a-bitch is out there. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Sam cleans the car after hunts too because he sure as hell isn't going in and out of battle with the Impala looking like one of the cars Bobby has sitting in his yard. Dean would certainly kick his ass if he knew that his little brother was letting his car rot like one of Bobby's pieces of junk.

Sometimes, though, working on the car is just too much and Sam has to stop for a while to catch his breath. Sometimes he cries. Sitting on the hood, it's just him and the car, alone, on the highway with whatever tape he's picked from Dean's massive collection blaring through the speakers. He sleeps in the car too; his long body curled up in the back seat just like he had done when they were little with no motel to go to and staying at Bobby's or Pastor Jim's wasn't an option. It's uncomfortable, sure, but Sam doesn't mind. The Impala is their home and the only thing, besides the golden amulet that Sam now wears proudly around his neck, that Dean cared about more than anything.

Well, besides Sam of course. Dean would throw away both the car and the necklace without a second thought if it meant saving his little brother's life.

So Sam takes care of them, takes care of the car, as if she were his own. Keeps her clean and neat , washes the windows, waxes her, vacuums the floor, and tunes her up when necessary.

He supposes he should find it strange when, after Ruby comes and finds him and fills his head with thoughts of training to kill Lilith, and after being ignored for weeks at a time, the car doesn't show any signs of age or rust.


	4. Not Right

_Are you sure that what you brought back is one-hundred percent, pure, Sam? _Azazel said, and it's not until Dean comes back from hell, quieter than usual with a haunted look in his eyes, that Sam realizes those words can go both ways.


	5. Bad Idea

There are nights when Sam wonders if telling his father and Dean about his wanting to go to Stanford on Christmas Eve was such a good idea. Maybe if he hadn't, Dean and him wouldn't have had to deal with John hungover on Christmas morning.


	6. Why?

**Warmth**

She's burning again.

She's _always_ burning.

Trapped, pinned to the ceiling, mouth open in a silent scream as the flames spread out behind her in an explosion of brilliant orange and yellow; like a pair of fiery wings unfurling themselves from the body of a phoenix. Then the wings transform into the fiery claws of the demon, and she's burning and bleeding and staring down at him with surprise and pain in her green eyes. Choking on smoke now, all she can do is gasp and wheeze in an attempt to call for help.

Sam can't get to her, though; he never can. His body is pinned to the bed just as poor Jessica is stuck to the ceiling and he's forced to watch, for the hundredth time, as the flames eat away at her body.

A choked plea, "S-S-S-am..." pushes it's way through cracked lips and he snaps his eyes open – because he had closed them once her flesh had begun to peel – to see the disappointment, the _why_, reflected in her eyes.

"No!"

"H-help... me... S-Sam..."

And he tries, swear to God he tries; but he's stuck too, and can't do anything more than lift his head just barely off of the blanket. The scent of burnt flesh fills his nose and he screams this time, cries, tries in vain to just raise his fucking arm to reach out to her, to just _touch _her!

"Jess!" Writhing, rolling, he cries, bucks desperately, but the iron grip on him doesn't falter, and once again Jessica is screaming as the fire crawls along her skin.

_Sam!_

A loud banging suddenly issues itself from the bedroom door and for a moment he thinks he can hear his brother's voice, high and frightened, yelling for him.

_Sammy!_

"Dean!"

"Help me, Sam!"

His eyes instantly flicker back to Jess. When he sees how much of her hair and skin has been eaten away, something inside him snaps.

Sam, tears streaming down his cheeks, gives one final cry, one more attempt to raise himself from the mattress. But the fire lashes outward, over Jess's thin frame.

He doesn't even have the time to call out to her before the fire consumes everything and, once again, she's gone.

www

"Sam! Sammy – Hey! Look at me bro, you're okay; it was just a dream."

"Dean...?"

Sam says breathlessly, voice shuddering as he tries to get himself under control. He's laying on his bed, blankets twisted around his legs after being no doubt kicked around for a few hours during his sleep. His voice isn't the only thing shaking, the rest of him is too – well, trembling is more like it; miniature earthquakes trailing up and down his limbs. It's also hot, which is probably why his sweat-drenched clothes are sticking to him like a second skin, constricting his movements along with the wool snake that's wrapped itself around his legs.

"Sam?"

Dean's voice is low, worried, and Sam knows that if he opens his eyes he'll see his brother looking at him questioningly. He can't open them, though, not yet, because if he does he's positive that Jess will be there, gazing at him accusingly with fire-bright irises and blackened skin.

The memory of his nightmare is too much and Sam makes a choked noise in his throat and draws an arm across his eyes while trying to hide his tears.

Why did she have to die? Why couldn't I _save_ her?

Something shifts beside him and Dean speaks again, voice still low, but this time comforting and there's no doubt in Sam's mind that his big brother can see that he's practically bawling like a baby.

"Hey, Sammy, it's okay. Was just a dream, dude, it's alright." Then a hand, rubbing smooth, gentle circles along his back.

_No_, Sam thinks, body quaking as he sobs into the mattress.

It's not alright at all.


	7. Lament

**Diamonds**

It's not until the day he breaks that Heaven is able to hear him. It's also the day that Castiel learns, rather shockingly, that angels do, in fact, have tear ducts.

He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know why his eyes are leaking, or why his chest hurts so bad. All he knows is that the sound he is hearing – the sound that's somehow dragged it's way up from the pits of Hell and is now echoing through the stars– is horrible. It's the audible manifestation of someone in agony; Castiel didn't know all the pain and suffering of one man could be expressed through such a simple cry.

It was the sound of a soul being cut open and ripped in two!

The other angels, the ones who had gathered at the gates in preparation to descend into the pit, are quiet, but Castiel knows that they are experiencing the same phenomenon as he is. He can _hear _the tiny droplets as they hit the ground and shatter into millions of pieces. He can hear their wings rustling as they shift about uncomfortably, not understanding what is happening but knowing that it's the _sound _that's the cause of all this misery.

It reverberates all around them, filling their ears with it's mournful song. The angels are quiet, listening to the story of a hunter, a brother, and a father who was never truly there. Castiel silently weeps as the raw emotion of the tale sears every one of his nerves.

Minutes pass before the sound finally stops, and not even two seconds after it's abrupt end Castiel and his brothers are diving through the gate with a renewed determination in their eyes; anger running through their veins. They will do whatever it takes to get this man's soul back, even at the cost of their own lives because this man is special, he has a _purpose_.

Castiel _knows_ he's special, because, after all, it's the first time in over a millennium where Heaven has willingly shed it's diamonds for the soul of a mortal.


	8. Stinky, I Love You

"Didja see that, Dean? Did you?"

"Yeah I did, Sammy. That goalie didn't know what hit 'em. You shot that ball into the net like a bullet!"

The ten-year-old beams down at him from atop their father's shoulders, gold medal glinting like sunlight in his hands.

Dean grins back, the pride he has in his little brother evident even in the congratulatory fist-pound he reaches up to give him. Even John Winchester, a man known more for his abilities at killing werewolves than for his skills as a father, is beaming with pride.

"We're real proud of you, Sammy," John says as he reaches up with one hand while the other has a firm grip on Sam's leg to ruffle his youngest son's hair.

Dean nods in agreement, glad that today hadn't ended in one of them exploding at the other. He knows that their father's words are honest and sincere from the way John had run out on the field to lift his son high in the air after Sam had scored the winning goal, ending the game at three to two, and garnering his team the title of 'champions' for the remainder of the season.

It had been somewhat surreal, with no monster to hunt or ghost to banish. For once it had felt... _normal, _with all the shouting and cheering, and being surround by other parents who had leaped out onto the field to crowd their children in loving embraces and offer them words of praise. 

It had felt... _good._

Usually they were stuck in dingy motel rooms for weeks on end, used to eating nothing but Kraft Dinner while their father was out hunting with other hunters. There was no time for normal, to be a part of something as simple as an outdoor soccer team. Hell, there was hardly enough time for _school!_

But now the three of them are walking back to the Impala, _laughing _and _smiling_ and making promises to go out to Sam's favourite restaurant for a celebratory dinner just like any other family would.

In all of Dean's fourteen years of life has he never been so happy.

"Knocked that guy down with one hit and the ref didn't even call it! Hah!" Sam's still happily chatting away as they climb into the old Chevy, hinges squealing as they shut the doors.

"So where do you want to go, kiddo?" John asks, still all smiles, from behind the wheel.

Dean snorts, "You know where he wants to go, dad."

John chuckles as he starts the car. The engine comes to life with a low, rumbling growl, "The usual, huh?"

Sam's messy hair flops around, reminding Dean of a small sheepdog, as he nods in earnest, "Mm-hm!"

And with another growl the Impala lurches from the parking lot and onto the open road.

A few minutes later Sam starts to fidget with his shin guards and cleats.

Dean looks over at the struggling boy and frowns, 'What're you doin'?"

"Taking my shoes and guards off. What's it look like?"

"Do you _have_ to do it in the car?"

Sam gives him one of those 'do-you-need-to-ask' expressions and continues undoing the laces and Velcro.

"Ugh, keep your shoes on!"

"Hey!"

"Boys!"

"Dad, open a freaking window!"

"It's not _that _bad!"

Dean makes a gagging noise and scrabbles frantically for the window lever, "Goddamnit!" A hiss escapes him when he finds that the lever won't move in his grasp.

"C'mon, guys, it's not bad!"

"Jesus _Christ, _son; smells like something crawled up into your shoes and died!"

"Dad!"

The rest of the drive is spent complaining about Sam's horrid-smelling footwear and trying to inhale every last molecule of clean oxygen from the open front windows.


	9. Dawn

_ "It's time to let go._

_ Time to carry on with the show._

_ Don't mourn what is gone; breathe the dawn_

_ And I will be standing by your side._

_Together we'll face the turning tide."_

_- Dawn, Poets of the Fall_

"It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay. I've got him."

But Dean, slumped against the Impala, watching his little brother pull the Horsemens rings from his pocket as he gets ready to throw himself into Lucifer's cage, knows that it's _not _going to be okay.

His breath hitches in his throat when Sam throws the key on the ground in front of him, holds his hand out, and there's that split second familiarity. The action is too reminiscent of times before; times that Dean wishes he could forget.

Then Sam speaks the incantation and a hole suddenly rips open in the earth with a rush of air. Crows squawk and take flight to escape the chasm as it greedily tries to suck in anything and everything around it into Hell.

And Sam is just standing there, fear written all over his face. Dean can see his legs shaking, but Sam knows that what he's about to do is for the greater good. So he takes a step forward and now he's leaning precariously on the edge, offering himself up, about to sacrifice himself for a world that left him behind.

And even though Dean's head is spinning and his eye is so swollen he can barely see, even though he _promised _ he would let Sam do this; he can't. He can't let his baby brother willingly hop over into Hell and play chew-toy to Lucifer for the rest of eternity; what the hell kind of big brother would he be then? He's been protecting Sam for years, looking out for him just like their dad had told him to, and now he's just supposed to throw that all out the window?

He doesn't want Sam to go to Hell.

Even though Dean's been there himself, knows what it's like, he knows that whatever Lucy's got planned for Sam is going to be a million times worse. Dean's forty years were just child's play; the King of Hell is sure to be much more creative when it comes to torture methods intended to shatter people from the inside out.

And no matter what Sam thinks, there is no way Dean can ever just forget about his brother and go live that apple-pie life that the two of them have been wanting for years. He doesn't _want _the white, picket fence and the two-point-five kids.

All he wants is for his brother to not have to do this.

There is no way he can do it. Sam is looking at him again, expression fearful but determined, and his big, doe eyes are telling Dean all he needs to know without having to be expressed with words.

_I love you, big brother._

It's that look that gets to him and shatters his heart into a billion tiny pieces. Dean is pulling himself up so fast he almost lands flat on his ass again. His face hurts and his head is throbbing but he manages to stay on his feet by supporting himself against the Impala's sturdy frame.

The wind from the cage door tugs at their clothes and whips Sam's too-long hair into his face. Then, he gives a slow nod to Dean, who can only stare back, horrified, as his brother closes his eyes and spreads his arms outwards in an offering to the Pit.

And then he starts to fall.

Dean moves so fast Sam doesn't even know what hits him; but when he opens his eyes Dean is _there, _wrapping both arms around Sam's middle and then they're _both _falling.

"Dean! No!"

But Sam knows it's too late. They're already going down and the wind clawing at them isn't about to let go.

"Can't do it, Sammy. Can't let _you _do this. Can't let you go. So I'm comin' with you instead."

The anger deflates out of Sam in a rush of tears.

"You're such a jerk."

But Sam wraps his too-long arms around his too-short, big brother anyway, just like how Dean used to do when Sam was little to comfort him after a nightmare.

Then, the cage closes, and the two of them are following each other into oblivion.


	10. Valentine

_Author's Note: Been awhile since I've written anything for this, but my inspiration when writing is fickle. It comes and goes and sometimes leaves me for a long time. The thing is, I've had this little idea poking around in my head since before Valentine's Day but was unable to write anything down due to lack of inspiration. I do hope you enjoy it though. I'm satisfied with how it turned out. _

* * *

Sam wakes up this morning like's done every morning for the past couple of weeks: groggy, unhappy, and not expecting much from the world. He sits up on the edge of his motel bed and stretches, cracking his stiff joints and listening to them each pop one by one. Then he simply stays seated for a moment like he always does. Sometimes he reflects upon the previous night's dream but more often than not he finds himself thinking about nothing at all.

Or he tries to, anyway. Tries as hard as he can to forget the smell of smoke and burning flesh, and the heat of the fire as it burned all around him.

He tries to forget her screams and pleads as the fire consumed her, peeled her skin back piece by little piece, the flames taking their sweet time.

There's nothing he can do, of course. The image of her beautiful blonde hair being eaten up in the inferno and the look of utter horror on her face when she realizes that Sam isn't going to be able to get her down and out of the heat is pure torture.

Sam looks up with tired eyes at the little calender that's placed on the nightstand between his and his brother's bed's. The noise that he makes when he sees today's date is somewhat of a choked back sob and he has to catch himself before he manages to wake up Dean, who is sleeping soundly on the other bed.

Breath hitching in his throat, Sam gets up and makes his way to the bathroom. Once he's showered and made himself look half decent he grabs his jacket and laptop bag and heads for the door. The little convenience store he remembers seeing on their way here is only two blocks away so instead of taking the impala he walks. Besides, doing this gives him time to think about everything and clear his head a bit. Or at least it gives him time to try.

Unfortunately, the one thing he is unable to keep out of his head during the entire course of his walk is an image of the little calender on the nightstand and today's date; circled by whomever had the stupid idea with a red pen in the shape of a Goddamned heart.

Frowning, Sam glances up just in time to see the store coming into view and upon viewing it, lets out a long sigh. The front of the store has little hearts drawn all over the front window in red and pink marker and from what he can tell the inside is decorated in much of the same fashion.

_Fuck._

Oh well. Better just hurry up before he _throws up._

Sucking in a sharp breath, Sam ducks his head, eyes hiding beneath his too long bangs, and enters.

When he returns to the motel about an hour later, Dean is up and sitting at the table with a coffee mug in his hand. Whether he's actually awake though, is questionable as he glances up at Sam with half-lidded eyes and hair sticking up in different directions when Sam walks in. Dean doesn't say anything and neither does Sam, but despite Dean's appearance Sam has no doubt about the look of sympathy hidden in his brother's eyes.

The youngest Winchester doesn't mention it and sets the laptop bag back down on his bed then heads to the bathroom. His eyes are red.

Likewise, Dean doesn't mention the little Valentine's Day card addressed to Jessica stuffed into Sam's duffel bag when he finds it a few hours later.


End file.
